The Very Model of Responsibility

Today is wee Eric's 28th birthday, meaning he's now officially a measly two years away from the big 3-0, while I get to remain blissfully not close to 30 for another 8 months (HEY! Eight months until my birthday! Score!) We've decided to spend the big day doing not much of anything at all, which, believe me, is exactly what we need to do, as we've spent the better part of the last two weeks attached to a cocktail.

Since the now infamous Muffin Incident, we've been quite busy celebrating life, love, and the merits of champagne with our friends, literally, all over the country. On a side note, though, since I'm sure you've all been dying to know- I have managed to eat both a muffin and a sandwich at the very scene of The Incident and, I can happily assure you, that nary a morsel was snatched by a klepto vagrant.

Some may call our summer thus far a bit lavish, over the top, excessively lush... I prefer to think of it as merely ushering out Eric's 27th year in style. Yeah, that's the story, and I'm sticking to it.

In June, I was the luckiest girl on the planet and spent a WHOLE WEEK in Colorado. It was glorious- plenty of laughs with the fam, bike rides, good eats, and strong cocktails. Most importantly, it was Annette and Zak's wedding. Everything about what I just said makes me happy, and it was all truly perfect, but the highlights were Eric and my INSANE talent on the dance floor, Mom and Dad's newly coined moniker, "The Coolest Lower-Middle Aged Couple Around," and the discovery of DIAMOND DEB's, the very best strip mall bar in America. This was, clearly, a very successful wedding. All our love to you, Annette and Zak!


After a few pesky weeks of work, we spent a week in California, primarily so Eric could mount Mt. Whitney with his boyfriends while I drank cosmos with Momo, Pops, and Sissy. While Eric pooed in a bag, ate dehydrated pasta primavera, and burned upwards of 12,000 calories, I subsisted on calamari, butter, pizza, and vodka. And this was just the gateway to the next three weeks of living large.

When we got back from California, we went to our NYU friends Jess and Jeff's fancy-pantsy wedding. If you want to know just how fancy, you can see that they have an actual wedding announcement in the New York Times. And a video. I know, who are these people? Well, they're extremely kind and generous, and really know how to throw an amazing party. Cocktails flowed freely and Eric became the night's dance floor MVP. Good wedding, good wedding! Congrats and thanks for such an awesome night.

Once we recovered from that extravaganza, we drove to Lake George for Matt and Jen's wedding. On a boat. This wedding was incredibly sweet and intimate, and- I will say it again because I am obsessed with it- it was on a boat. Plus we got to spend another weekend with all the boyfriends and it wasn't even humid. I couldn't ask for more. Congratulations, you guys!

Another side note: as I was sitting in Central Park writing this, a mime on stilts adorned with American flags, wearing nothing but a Speedo strolled on by.

So all of this led up to last weekend, when our dear friend Allison Gomer took New York by storm. Allison is basically a madame for an alcohol promotion company, so this girl knows how to have a good time. (I'm not joking- that's really her job, and she really is the coolest person ever.) The weekend with Allison went something like this: we spent a day at Coney/Beer Island, followed by a night out on the town, followed by a day brunching at Calle Ocho, followed by an evening in Dolby's screening room watching The Big Lebowskie and drinking 40's of Bud Lite (class all the way.) Whew! Now, that was definitely one of the most fun weekends we've had in the city, but I'm not too proud to admit that Eric and I just might be too old for this. Aside from a full week needed for recovery, we also managed to demonstrate an astonishing lack of responsibility:

1. We lost our camera. (I know. Don't even say it. Worst. Times. Ever.)

2. We accidentally locked our cat in the closet for a good 13 hours.

3. I purchased nearly $20 worth of Silly Bands.

So, we're never speaking of #1 again. Once Eric and I deem ourselves thoroughly punished, we'll get a new camera and surgically implant it in one of our bodies.

#2 should speak for itself. We're clearly unfit parents, and this will serve as Exhibit A whenever anyone asks us when we might want to have kids.

And #3. Silly Bands. Yes, Silly Bands- those multi-colored rubber bands you see little kids wearing, that some times glow in the dark or maybe smell like a grape scratch-and-sniff sticker. Do you even know how many Silly Bands you can get for $20? (And, while I'm confessing, I should be clear- Allison and I BOTH spent $20 on Silly Bands.) That's hundreds upon hundreds of Silly Bands. So, I'm obviously now the coolest 11 year old in the class.

Wow. So now you can truly understand why tonight, on the anniversary of Eric's birth, we'll be having a wild night at home, listening to Billy Joel and reading books.

A Gem

It has been a long time since I've had this AWESOME of a New York story to tell! I've become so immune to New York's ridiculousness that all I can talk about is the humidity (terrible), the heat (also terrible), and brunch (awesome). I mean, obviously, there are plenty of crazy people wandering around that I'm sure are crossing my path so I can write about them. Apparently, though, I'm too busy drowning in my own sweat to notice them.

Until last weekend.

Because this could not be ignored.

But, first, the Preface:

When Mom and Aunt Midge visited New York last year, we went out for drinks at the fabulous Le Parker Meridien. In addition to frothy, expensive cocktails, this hotel bar has the Best Nuts and Snacks Ever. And that is not an overstatement. You guys- they have fried, cheese-stuffed olives. On their nut tray. I needn't say more.

So, anyways, we were just minding our own business, sipping our delicious martinis, carefully dividing the snacks among the three of us so we all got our rightfuls, and just having a grand old time. And then, a possibly homeless, definitely crazy lady walks by, reaches down, grabs a giant handful of our nuts, and keeps on walking, right out the door!

I can't believe I never wrote about that before, because it was one of the funniest moments I've had in the city. Maybe I was so relieved she didn't take any olives that I figured it wasn't actually a big deal, even though a crazy lady did steal our bar snacks.

This was SO much better than that.

In the summer, Eric and I always get a muffin from the farmers market on Saturday mornings and go to the park and watch baseball. Well, actually, I get a muffin. Eric eats parsley or something, because he's so petite.

Anyways, this Saturday, we got our delicious and healthy breakfasts (respectively), and made ourselves comfortable on a park bench. It quickly proved to be an exciting day though, as we were witnesses to a definitely crazy, definitely homeless woman stealing a soda from a park vendor. Then, she came back to the vendor and offered to "help" him instead of paying for it. Believe me, Tucky would probably have been a better helper, poor lady.

So, we went about our business, and Eric polished off his hay in two seconds flat, and I nibbled at my muffin to make it last as long as humanly possible. We were just about ready to go, and I had the last perfect bites of my muffin just sitting in my lap. The next thing I know, the Crazy Lady Who Steals Sodas walks up to me and snatches that muffin right out of my lap! SHE TOOK MY MUFFIN!

At first I tried to grab it back, but then I thought: 1. NUH UH. (Hungry Rebecca) 2. She obviously needs this muffin more than me (Compassionate Rebecca) 3. I'm obviously not going to eat that muffin anymore (Skeeved Out Rebecca) and 4. This muffin is extremely tasty, but probably not worth taking down a crazy, homeless lady (Reasonable Rebecca)

In a matter of seconds, she walked away, as suddenly as she arrived, enjoying the best muffin she's probably ever had. Lucky Crazy Lady.

SHE TOOK MY MUFFIN! OUT OF MY LAP!

How's THAT for a good Central Park story?

Sic Transit Gloriam Mundi

Translation: Another one bites the dust.

Dear friends, last week we discovered the demise of yet another of our favorite weekend pastimes. Blockheads' brunch has gone the way of Maraca's and Anytime: Down the toilet.

Boo hoo hoo. For real.

On a perfect summer day last weekend, we waltzed into Blockheads prepared to celebrate the long weekend the way any long weekend should be celebrated: with mediocre service and food, sure, but, more importantly, with buckets and buckets of champagne. But, alas! There would be no buckets, for Blockheads has decided that they will only give you ONE glass of champagne and charge for the rest! The nerve!

Now, I'll be honest and admit that the subsequent glasses are still only $2, so they're not breaking the bank. But this is BRUNCH, people- something I take very seriously- so, to me, it's all about principles here.

Sadly, Blockheads has gone from a place of wonder- a place that happily served goblets and carafes of champagne until you actually lost all ability to behave reasonably (spoken from experience?)- to a place of sadness- because, believe me, we were sad when all we wanted was another mimosa and we were going to be charged for it! Those are supposed to be free! This is brunch, for crying out loud!

Now that a week has passed, I'm (mostly) over it (I do have a life, surprisingly enough). I've moved to a stage of melancholy, just quietly longing for my old friend Blockheads, Home of the Endless Supply of Champers.

RIP Old Friend.

But don't expect me to have any more of your $2 mimosas.

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S

Yeah, that's me. Because, listen y'all, I hang out with movie stars now.

Before I get into specifics of how I've become completely famous, allow me to re-cap my ridiculous rock-star life of late: First, about two weeks ago I decided I needed to jet out of town and spend a weekend tanning in Bermuda. When I tired of that, it was time to race back to New York so I could go to a dance party with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas on the rooftop of the Empire Hotel.

You guys. I got past the red velvet rope and everything. I was even on the list.

Can you see how I'm just an eating disorder and a small prescription drug habit away from being a real celebrity? I'm just sayin'..

The party was thrown by Ms. Zeta-Jones as a thank you for the cast, crew, and plus one's of A Little Night Music, perhaps as a thank you for embracing her whole-heartedly, despite rumors of her own mild intoxication at nearly every performance. I, frankly, didn't care what the circumstances were, and I assure you that Paul didn't either. Now that we've conquered Broadway and orchestras, we knew that Hollywood was the obvious next step. This party was to be our entry point, clearly.


So, I flew in from Bermuda, dusted off the pretty pink sand, and threw on the tightest back dress I can find, and went shivering into the night for my evening with the stars.

I even had a side ponytail.

I am MADE for this kind of life.

The party, of course, was awesome, and, luckily, not actually outside on the roof, since it was seriously frigid out. Since no one else really likes to eat at movie star parties, Paul and I were able to commandeer an entire bar AND crudite platter all for ourselves. At first we were a little embarrassed to be the only ones eating, and then we remembered that since we're famous now, we can do whatever we want. And besides, we had our OWN platter of cheese and we were at a party with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas. Life was good.

Soon Stephen Sondheim sauntered in and the girls and gays were suddenly all a-twitter. We maintained our poise and continued to casually eat our cheese. Stephen camped out the rest of the night with Michael and Catherine, though Catherine had to run off approximately every 2 seconds to either smoke and be completely insane. So, really it was just the old boys club in the VIP section (which Paul and I made sure to sit right next to. Duh.)

Finally, some other people started eating, so we moved on to the buffet and consumed all the proteins, which really made it a perfect night.

Then it was a dance party! So, Paul and I danced with (and I do mean actually danced with) our new movie star friends until the Empire Hotel kicked us all out.

And that was it! Movie star party? Check.

Now it's just back to reality, which means working hard for America's orchestras. All. The. Time.

But, whenever I need to escape the trenches of my lovely workplace, I can just think back to that one time that I was completely famous for one entire weekend.

Fantasy Land

The tale I'm about to tell may sound tall- a delusion, a yarn, an urban legend. But no. It's real, and even I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I'm not just making it up.

So, early last week Eric got a call at work that from someone (somewhere?) very special, and they needed his help . And because he's very lucky to get to "work" in so many awesome places, he of course jumped at the chance to go help out this special somewhere. And, who, you ask, was the mystery client? Well, it was BERMUDA. Not even kidding.

But we're not to the best part yet.

Eric decided right away that I should come help out Bermuda too (or, perhaps, lay on the beach while Eric "worked"--- he really does work, I just like to tease him because he's so fancy) and, as luck would have it, we had some frequent flier models/VERY cheap tickets on Jetblue that were be PERFECT for me AND Bermuda said we could stay for free all weekend!

The only problems were that A) I'm crazy-busy at work right now and taking time off is risky at best; B) I'm taking two days off next week to visit the Best State in the Union; and C) It's INSANE to just pick up and go to Bermuda for the weekend. I mean, who does that??

After much soul-searching, I decided I could, in fact, afford to take a day off work and exercising to go on a free trip to Bermuda, because, when all is said in done, you'd be insane NOT to take a free trip to Bermuda. I don't care how busy or important your job is. And, besides, as much as it pains me, I knew the orchestras would make it for a day or two without me.

And so, the fantasy begins...

Friday morning I escaped from New York and a mere two hours later landed in Paradise. Take a moment to imagine was Bermuda/Paradise might look like....well, I'm here to tell you that it looks exactly like that. It is pristine- endless turquoise water, fine white and pink sand, narrow roads weaving through rolling hills, sweet little houses in every imaginable color of the pastel rainbow, flowers everywhere, and a lot of chickens.

Ha! I bet you didn't see that one coming! But seriously, there really are a lot of chickens, and I promise I wasn't even really afraid. Roosters have a lot to say though- they're always yelling about something.

When Eric had gotten to Fantasy Land the day before, he found out that the apartment we were supposed to stay in was under repair so we had to be re-located. The original apartment was, I'm sure, going to be perfectly lovely, but in the main city of Hamilton, so not right by the water. The buses in Bermuda are awesome (and also, incidentally, the most pleasant shade of pastel pink) so we would have been able to get anywhere we wanted, but we would definitely have spent more time on the bus.

So, Bermuda decided to rent us a condo on the beach.

And Bermuda said it was still ok if we stayed the whole weekend.

Done and done.

Our new condo was very close to the water, with marina views, in old St. George's Parrish, which was the old capital of Bermuda. It's a sweet little town, and it truly looks like the Bermuda of your imagination. We had a nice British pub lunch on the water and then hit the beach. It was nearly abandoned and just perfect. I know that's boring, but there's really no other way to describe it.

For dinner, we went to a local hangout for rum punch, fried fish, live Bermudian music, and an awesome view of the sunset. Then we had a swim in our pool, which was heated even more than Grandma's pool and was just about the most awesome way ever to end your first day of your fantasy in Bermuda.

On Saturday, our new friend Brian, who was the one who actually called Eric and made this whole dream life happen, took us on a driving tour to the other end of the islands. Reason #535,789 that I love Bermuda: Manners and Civility. These are my kind of people! Quiet, polite, well-behaved, and very properly dressed. And I mean everyone! They're all so nice! And they all seem to know each other- everyone's constantly honking and waving at each other as they drive along, as if the whole country is just happy little friends. And, they just might be, because what do they have to be sad or fight about? It's BERMUDA. They also have AWESOME accents. It's not quite British, not quite Caribbean, not quite African. It's impossible to place, but awesome nonetheless. Favorite words? Cewl (cool) and ookey (okay).

Ookey. Cewl. Our driving tour took me to one of the most famous beaches, Horseshoe Bay, and Eric to "work" a bit more. We spent the whole day soaking up the sun, and headed back to St. George's that evening before taking the bus to the boonies for dinner at a true Bermudian local hangout. This restaurant was in the middle of nowhere, right on the water (almost everything's on the water in Bermuda, so it's actually not that special, but I still think it's nice), and is famous for seafood (shark hash, anyone?), authentic Bermudian cooking (think seafood and black-eyed peas with rice), and very strong rum punch. Our rum punch of choice was the Bermuda Triangle, and I have to say it's lucky we found our bus back to St. George's. It was an awesome dinner, and of course, the Bermudian service and hospitality was impeccable.

On Sunday, we sadly did have to leave Paradise. Darn. We managed to fit in another visit to the beach, but sadly, no more rum punch.


And just like that, as quickly as it had begun, it was over! I still can't really believe I went to Bermuda last weekend (even though work on Monday was a pretty substantial reality check. That is NOT fantasy-land, although it is surreal 99% of the time.)

My rock-star life didn't actually end there, though, because I had to fly back from Bermuda in time to get to a movie star party.

But that story's going to have to wait for another day...

Take 2

Now that I've gotten over my deep and dark anger at Blogger for erasing every single one of my finely crafted sentences the other day, I'm going to try to capture the last two months for you. Again. And you can bet that this time I'll be pressing SAVE NOW approximately every five words. SAVE NOW.

Ok, let me think...I believe it started something like this...

GEEZ. Two months since my last post? It seems that this would-be blogger has fallen right off the wagon. Since my three devoted fans have started assuming that Eric and I have either been swallowed by the Hudson or have finally become the hermits we occasionally pretend to be, I decided it was time to dust off the trusty laptop (or rather, open up a website other than evil Facebook) and indulge you (and myself) with some musings.

In my FAILURE post, I mentioned that the original title for this tale of two months was "Blowouts, Brunches, Backbends, and Beets." Well, that pretty much sums it right up. Wow. That was totally easy! See you guys later!

Ahem.

In March, Eric was very lucky and got to go to Washington DC to "work" and see our friends, then spend two entire weeks traveling to Montreal and Toronto, where he "worked", stayed in nice hotels, and hung out with friends, and then to California, where he "worked" and "innovated", ate giant sandwiches filled with fried cheese, and had parties with all his boyfriends.



I, other the other hand, was unlucky, and spent those two weeks living a surprisingly healthy lifestyle- eating my greens, doing lots of yoga (hence the "backbends" referenced earlier), and embracing my hermit-like nature by staying in and hanging out with the Tuckster. OMG. SAVE NOW.

This was all in preparation for Julie's visit over Easter, which really just ushered in April, now affectionately (?) called Blowout Month at the Vier-house.

As usual, the highlights of Julie's visit were our meals. There- I said it. But, it's true.



We had a huge night out on the town with Pops, followed by a day where we ate nothing but meat- including meat from the street, which I luckily now know is the very best kind of meat. We sunned ourselves while sipping fresh margs at Blockheads, though there were sadly no girl fights in the bathroom line this time and watched Twilight: New Moon (which, incidentally, is HILARIOUS). On Easter we made the incredible journey down to the Lower East Side to go to Paul's church ( that is FAR), and had a great great time. I have never been to a church, especially a Lutheran church, that is quite so fond of accidentals, syncopation, and "This Little Light of Mine." Easter brunch was at Calle Ocho (duh), where we learned from our new bestie, Antonio the waiter, that it was our SIXTEENTH time brunching there. WOW. We seriously need a life. But the good news is that now we are best friends with a (really funny) waiter there.
Once we recovered from Easter brunch, we wrote some mad libs with Paul. Do you remember how fun mad libs are? They are truly one of the best inventions ever. On Julie's last day, we walked around downtown and across the Brooklyn Bridge and then ate our weight in calamari at, you'll never guess---- Calle Ocho.

(save now)

As you can imagine, I needed a bit of detox after that. Not for long through, because luck would have it that MOM was coming to town a mere week and a half later! And, the festival of food and cocktails began again!

Highlights of mom's trip included an afternoon spent wandering midtown in search of a lovely little cafe for a late lunch that would preferably feature a nice lamb salad and French wine. Apparently though, these restaurants do not exist between the hours of 3 and 5. At last! A weakness in New York dining! Luckily, Blockheads is always willing to serve the people icy fresh margs, so we didn't have to cry for long. It was Paul's birthday that weekend, so he threw a party in Mom's honor. We made the trek out to his sweet pad on the rosy Rosy Isle and celebrated Paul's 27th year with cosmos, stinky cheese, fried mozzarella, home-made cupcakes, a lot of gays, and, most importantly, pigs in a blanket. When's the last time you had, or even thought about, pigs in a blanket?? I recommend you do it right now. Yeah. They're that good.

Don't worry- we took some home in our pocket for breakfast the next day.

And I am SO not even kidding.





Despite the lingering effects of Paul's Birthday Blowout, we again sojourned to the Lower East Side for church, and Paul, despite even stronger lingering effects of his Birthday Blowout, managed to play all the notes on the piano as loudly as he possibly could. Then, refreshed from our time with the Lower East Side Lutherans, we went to our SEVENTEENTH brunch at Calle Ocho.

If you think that at this point I needed to sober up and maybe, I don't know, go to WORK or exercise or do chores or something, you're definitely right. And I did do those things, but luckily (?) for me, I had another Blowout in the works for the very next weekend.

Our dear friend from college, Mara, was in town, so, clearly, we had to show her a good time so, clearly, we had to take her to Calle Ocho for our EIGHTEENTH brunch. Save. Now. It was a very mature, quiet, and well-mannered brunch, and then our new friend Antonio came by and it was all over. We (meaning Paul and Eric) even decided it was a good idea to continue the Blowout at home with some Peach Flips, Mario Party, and maybe a little dancing! It was a really great time, but I will say this: We are officially too old for that kind of behavior. Thus sayeth this old lady.

Some time in between Blowouts, we went on a bike ride down to Battery Park. Anyone that has talked to me lately knows I'm obsessed with riding bikes, but after this experience, I think I'm going to have to start clarifying that. I'm obsessed with riding bikes in the beautiful, crisp, not crowded Colorado Rockies, NOT the INSANELY crowded bike paths of Central and Riverside Parks. It was like Bumper Bikes, and I was not happy.

I survived to tell the tale though, and was rewarded with guacamole and a fresh marg for my tears.

Things have wound down a bit, which might be partially due to the fact that it jumped from 40 degrees to 90 degrees in approximately 8 minutes, so now everything around me is pretty slow moving, due to the fact that everything (including my person) feels as though it's been steeped in maple syrup. I LOVE SUMMER.

Finally, and this is completely and utterly unimportant, but I have got to tell you that I have begun a rather intense love affair with beets. I just cannot stop eating those silly, magenta, and oft misunderstood vegetables. They're like candy. Or jewels. Or candied jewels!

And with that stunner, I bid you adieu. We do have some pretty big stuff in the works for the next few days, so get ready. I might actually have something to talk about other than how much I love to eat bright pink vegetables.

We can all at least hope for that...

save now.

FAILURE. FAILURE!

I just want everyone to know that I just wrote an EPIC blog post spanning the last two months and was ready to share it with the world, when Blogger decided that just wasn't going to happen.

And, poof, my wittily-spun words and self-deprecating anecdotes were sucked into the abyss of cyberspace, never to be heard from, and read by anyone, again.

Sad. Face.

So, stay tuned- "Blowouts, Brunches, Backbends, and Beets, version 2.0" will be coming at you whenever I stop sulking and hating Blogger.

Sad. Face. Again.